


His Last Bow

by moffnat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cancer, Character Death, Death from Old Age, F/M, Growing Old Together, M/M, Military Funeral, Old Age, Oldlock, Retirementlock, Widowed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-11-18 12:14:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moffnat/pseuds/moffnat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After fifty years of being with Sherlock, John knows his time has come.</p><p>UPDATE: As of July, 2015, these are all in one fic instead of being a series. It's just cleaner this way. If your comments are missing or the fic is no longer in your bookmarks, chances are you liked/commented on a later chapter and it got deleted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lover's Eyes

             I fumble with the damn tea bag. Tearing the packet seems to be much more difficult tonight than it ever has been. I realize that my hands are trembling. There is nothing I can do to stop it.

            John seems to be sure that tonight is the night. He had awoken this morning with that look in his eyes that only a sick man can give and only an expert can recognize. He is a medical doctor; if he feels that his body is near the end of its use, I should agree with his diagnosis. But there is no part of that which I can accept.

            I had attempted to make the day as comfortable as possible for him. His worsening condition has made it difficult for him to move, and in consequence we haven’t left the flat in a few days. I don’t mind. I’m afraid that if I leave, he’ll be gone when I return. I’ve never been much of a believer in fate, but somehow I believe he’s hanging on, if for no other reason than my sanity.

            Sentiment. Funny how completely understandable it is to me now.

            I manage to place the tea bag into the kettle, pouring the boiling water inside to fill the emptiness within. I wait a couple minutes until the herbs blend with the liquid before placing it on a tray with two cups and a bit of milk. How does John like his tea? I can’t seem to remember.

            Somehow I am able to make it up the stairs without dropping the platter of what I knew would be John’s last cup of tea. The little things have become so heavy on my conscience. His last shower, his last dinner, his last words to Harry, his last breath of fresh air. It is cruel; completely cruel that the strongest man of the two of us should be the one to die first.

            I reenter our bedroom. John is lying in the same place that I left him. He is on his back, a peaceful expression on his old face that seems to light up as I step in further. “You’re getting slow on the tea,” he teases with a grin.

            I didn’t think the need to portray emotion would come so soon.

            “The woman of the house is clearly incapacitated at the moment,” I reply, mirroring his smirk, but his is genuine. Mine is breaking. I set the platter down on the nightstand beside him and return to the chair I had placed at his bedside.

            I pour him some tea, which he accepts with gratitude. Fortunately I seemed to have remembered how he likes it. Good. I would hate to have forgotten such a menial thing.

            We talk for several hours, my hand resting on his chest to feel the rise and fall. We reminisce on past cases and think of how much time has passed since our first introduction. Remember how Toby used to chew up your slippers? How Molly planned you a surprise birthday party? Don’t forget the time bandits broke into the flat or when you and Lestrade burned the casserole at Christmas dinner.

            The memories sting like needles, piercing everywhere I thought to be strong. The hours pass too quickly. I find myself grasping for them even before they’ve ended.

            It is the change in his breathing pattern that I notice first. Shorter, raspier breaths. I take his hand in fear of him disappearing, but he offers me an understanding smile.

            “Sherlock,” he sighs, “why are you sitting all the way over there?”

            He is summoning me to lie beside him. I’m not sure I can handle it.

            I swallow hard and give him a slight nod of my head, pushing myself out of the wooden chair I had been sitting in for too long. My back gives a few cracks as I stand, but age has been kind to me considering all I have put my body through.

            It takes effort to crawl my old bones up on our bed. It’s not so much difficult as it is painful, a pain of the interior kind, pain in knowing that this is the last time we’ll ever lock into each other’s hold. It shouldn’t be as caustic as it is.

            I stutter there for a few moments, figuring out where he wants me. His body aches. I know, because he  _always_ moves to meet me halfway and this time he has not done so. I settle for slipping one arm under his back, the other over his stomach, placing my head on top of his heart.

            A bittersweet decision.

            We lie in silence for what feels like decades. He holds me closer. John isn’t as strong as he used to be, the realization of his rapidly deteriorating health growing violently stronger in my mind like a hurricane. I know what’s coming. Each second is living on the edge. He inhales. I prepare.

            “I love you, Sherlock.” His voice is barely above a whisper.

            A sob escapes my lips. I make no attempt to stop it.

            I am undone.

            John pulls me to the center of his chest, holding me as close as his weakened arms allow. I find myself squeezing tightly. We hold each other for what I know to be the same reason; the unyielding anxiety that the other will slip away. Maybe if we bring ourselves close enough, Death will take us together as he should.

            It takes me a few minutes to find my words. “I know, John,” I mutter back as I lift my head to meet his eyes. They are tranquil. It’s nearly time. My senses have escaped. It’s hard, but I muster enough strength to give him my final words.

            “I will always love you too.”

            The smile on his face is shatterproof. He lowers his head and kisses my lips slowly and tenderly, more than once. It breaks me and puts me back together at the same time and the kisses are over before I get a chance to log them into my memory. He repeats those three words too many times to count. I let him. It will be a long time before he can say this to me again.

            It starts with his breathing. He gasps for air, lungs unable to supply what his body needs. I leave all focus on myself behind and bring him closer if possible, burying my head into his neck, clinging to the last moments of his precious existence.

            They say your life flashes before your eyes, but I don’t expect his to flash before mine too. We are there in St. Bart’s. I take his phone and send a text to Lestrade that I can no longer remember. We become flatmates. He complains about the messes I make and the body parts in the fridge. He is with me as I rabble over case details and beside me when I battle with the definition affections and their relation to daily life. We embrace. I am ill and he cares for me. He is not shocked at my proposal. I stand across from him at the altar, hands and hearts entwined. We solve cases, make friends, travel to distant countries, perform rigorous stunts and somehow John lives to type the tales. A fall and a fixed point cannot separate us.

            We live a happy, adventurous, sometimes bittersweet life. There is no tragedy in that.

            John grasps the back of my shirt in the balls of his fist. I may have just told him not to fight it; I can no longer discern my thoughts from my words. I might be telling him that I love him, to save a spot for me when my time comes, if an afterlife exists. I've never been so desperate for one.

            It should frighten me how all thought process has been lost, but I can’t bring myself to draw attention to it. John Watson,  _my_ John is the only thing that matters in this world and he is leaving me an eternity too soon.

            His grip loosens. I hear his heart slow to a stop. His last breath is a soft, merciless sigh that brushes against the top of my head.

            He is gone.

            I bring him closer still, laboring under the delusion that he may have just fallen asleep. My better judgment argues otherwise. We’ve shared a bed for nearly fifty years; I know the difference between falling asleep and passing on. I simply cannot accept it.

            The time that was given to us was an illusion. Our life had lasted so long, filled so much, but only now do I realize how excruciatingly fast it flew by. I find myself begging for another chance.

            I lie there with him for God knows how long. I have given up on time and its futile measures. It is mercy, not strength that pushes myself out of his loose embrace when his warmth begins to dissipate. I can’t bear to look at him but my eyes want to see nothing else. There is an aura of peace about him, his lips form in a gentle grin.

            I hang my head. Suddenly, months of pent up aversion and anxiety pour from my tear ducts and shake me with violent sobs. I want to vomit. I want to scream. I want to march up to whatever lies ahead and demand his return.

            John had lived without me for a year. There is no fiber of my being that finds the strength to do the same.

            I manage to send a few texts. I can’t bring myself to attempt a phone call. One sends to Molly, and the other to Detective Inspector Dimmock.

            My body will not let me leave the room. I stand there, frozen and unfeeling before returning to the chair at my husband’s side. I take his hand in mine, stroking his soft hair gently with my other as if it will sooth him. I kiss his forehead several times. He is still and at peace, and I am neither.

            I don’t stop crying. I don’t leave his side. I don’t move when I hear Molly calling my name. I don’t look up as the flashing police lights invade our bedroom with their intrusive glare. They tell me I need to move. I don’t listen.

            When Molly pulls me gently from the chair, she encloses me in a tight hold that I do not feel.


	2. Song For John

_“Bit different from my day.”_

            A summer breeze rolls through the cemetery grounds, but I do not feel it. I am freezing. It starts in my feet, weaving its way up my legs and clawing ravenously through the pit of my stomach. It tears apart the nerves in my back and creates a home in the very layers of my skin.

            I am numb.

_ “Here…use mine.” _

__ It feels strange to wear a suit again. I was surprised to find one that fit me in the depths of our unclean closet. I had to push aside a few of John’s sweaters to get to the area I needed to reach. 

            I can’t bring myself to remove him.

            His books are piled in various places where he’d left them, dog-eared to ensure he wouldn’t lose his spot. The smell of him is still laced in the sheets. I can’t find the will to throw out his toothbrush and his tea cup is still resting on the nightstand.

            221B has become a junkyard of my inability to let go.

_ “Who said anything about flatmates?” _

__ The 23rd Psalm is read in a male voice I do not recognize. Though I may walk through the valley of Death, I fear no evil. I used to think those words were trivial and cliché, but once again the man I married has proven me wrong. The revelation shouldn’t shock me as much as it does.

            John feared nothing. He was brave in all the ways I pretended to be. He killed a man in my defense twenty-four hours after our introduction. If there was a threat to my well-being, he ended it. He greeted me every morning. He hugged me before I knew I needed physical contact. I want to say that he knew me better than I knew myself, but to do so would taste a lie. John and I were one. There was no separation.

_ “You’re unattached, like me.” _

            I can’t lift my eyes from the coffin. An intricately stitched British flag is draped over the top. Molly and Detective Inspector Dimmock had arranged a full military send-off, and I am guilty.

I didn’t have the courage to make the call.

__ The soldiers never break their rank as they form a well-rehearsed surrounding for John’s casket. I am certain it is a sight he would like to see. Their uniforms are painfully familiar, but I don’t know whether to be comforted by their presence or repulsed by the unwanted reminder. I settle for a mix of both.

            They have swords on their belts. I remember fondly when John found his own military-issued weapon buried in the closet some two decades back. One hour and a few broken chairs later, we’d ended a skillful duel. I still think he cheated.

_ “It’s never for nothing. Not if you don’t want it to be.” _

__ I push out a sigh. There is a lump in my throat. I’ve lost feeling in my fingers, the frigid stiffness of my bones spreading through the muscles like a plague. My body has become the biggest source of betrayal and all I can do is wait for the day that it no longer has to be.

            John has left me. I can’t think of anything more unsettlingly fitting. He has won his war. I can almost feel him encouraging me to march on, to triumph over my final years and dash through the finish line with pride. But life has become a lonely cage, and I as a person have become a sailor lost in the storm. I am a soul without a spirit. I am a galaxy without its sun.

_ “Yes, I am okay with this. This is okay. And you will be too.” _

            I suffer myself to my own thoughts. I don’t notice the highest ranking of the soldiers make his way to my attention.

            He is standing in front of me. I look up from my seat with analytical eyes.

            He kneels.

            The soldiers had folded John’s flag respectfully, and the man before me places it on my lap with amiable hands. He thanks me and my husband over the silence of the procession for our services and sacrifices, be they numerous and long ago.

            I trace my fingers over the thread. I am speechless. 

_ “Caring. Devotion to someone. Being happy with someone, maybe being happy for them. Wanting to protect them.” _

__ Molly tightens her grip on my arm as the soldier rises to return to his group. She has been sitting beside me since the start, never leaving me in my own company. Sometimes her presence escapes my perception but I never cease my silent thanks. 

            I feel her head rest on my shoulder. She is preparing.

            The seven soldiers have retrieved their guns, lining up in an infallible line. I didn’t anticipate this to be such a point of weakness.

_ “You know…I can’t imagine being anywhere else.” _

__ The first gunshots send shockwaves of reality up my spine. I find myself shivering. Molly holds me tighter. I watch the soldiers—four married with children, two just about to transfer to a new unit, and one going through a divorce—as they prepare for the next round of fire.

            I grip Molly’s hand as if I might slip away, despite how much I so desperately want to.

_ “God, I love you so much.” _

__ The second blasts ring out. I hang my head. John was my emotional supervisor and I am breaking in the mere memory of him.

_ “Maybe marriage wouldn’t be such a bad thing…” _

            I was never supposed to care. The ability to love was never meant to be a part of my personal chemistry. I pushed on for twenty-nine years of my life without such things, and now I can’t cut them out of me if I tried. Even if I begged, if I pleaded for the mercy of the true sociopathic natures I once fooled myself into believing I’d harbored, I can never be rid of him or his merciless effects. John is everywhere and nowhere. He is at the core of my senses and in the very oxygen I intake. He is noun and adjective, spark and reactant, foolish and wonderful, and I know now what I knew then; I'll never be able to escape.

_ “I was so alone, and I owe you so much.” _

            The third rounds fire. Molly holds me closer as I tremble under the weight of all that I never said.

            I hear the service conclude. I pay no attention. People approach me to offer their condolences, and I’ll be damned if I can identify any that do so. I am shaking hands and thanking strangers. I do not recognize the sound of my own voice.

            The size of the crowd shrinks periodically until the only person I recognize besides Molly is a face I haven’t seen decades.

            Sarah. There are tears in her eyes.

            It is cruel how those of us left out of our once large group of…friends, are the ones who suffer the most. I look down at Molly, who nods and slips her hand back into her lap. She offers a small and knowing smile.

            Picking up the old cane that was once used for a psychosomatic limp, I manage to push myself to my feet and make my way over to my old friend. 

_ “See, Sherlock? Having friends isn’t as bad as you thought. You like it. I know you do.” _

            Sarah extends her arms, and I gravitate to them like one magnet to another. We are old and cannot hug very tightly, but the years at our backs make such an embrace all the more meaningful. It is several minutes before she lets go. I notice her taking mental note of my emotional inadequacy.

            Age has treated Sarah kindly. She is a simple old woman now. Her husband is standing a few feet behind her, and we exchange brief nods of acknowledgement. I never understood how Sarah and John maintained a friendship after their brief romantic interlude, though I suppose such a thing was never in my range of comprehension to begin with.

            I look up to their son Anthony, who is standing nearby. He is tall and young, light brown hair in a neat cut. He smiles at me. Sarah’s family had been integrated into the life of John and I; we were there for Anthony’s adoption, and the boy came to know us as “Uncle John” and “Uncle Sherly” throughout his childhood. His own children were no different. They have all come to honor John, and I am humbled.

            There are tear stains on Sarah’s cheeks. John’s death has derailed her almost as hard as it has done to me. I place my hand on her shoulder with gratitude. He had no better friend than Sarah.

            “Beautiful service. Your eulogy was moving.”

            I offer a small, unamused chuckle. The eulogy had consisted of me standing at the podium, unable to speak for several minutes before shakily reading a well-edited paragraph that Molly had helped me write. My lack of control was displayed to everyone. I couldn’t care less.

            “Will you be okay?”

            My throat is dry. “Not sure.”

            “I’ll visit as often as I can. You shouldn’t have to do this alone.” She takes a step forward and places both hands on either side of my face. Her palms are warm and my skin is ice.

            “We are here for you, Sherlock. As we always have been.”

            “I know.”

            She reaches up to kiss my cheek. I bring her into another hug, simply out of need with the knowledge that she will do her best to fill the void. Her arms lock around my neck and we stand there, grateful to each other and broken over John’s absence, silently reminiscing over the Christmas dinners and the game nights the four of us used to share between cases.

_ “I’m so proud of you.” _

            Sarah slips out of our hold, and I return my hands back to my side.

            “Promise you’ll call?”

            “Of course.”

            She gives me a teary smile as she strokes my cheek. “See you soon, okay?”

            “I have no doubt.”

            Sarah turns back to her family then, and I watch them, wondering how different things might have turned out if John and I had adopted too.

_ “You are my family.” _

            I turn and slowly begin to make my way back to Molly, the constant complaining of my muscles making each step a painful one. I lean on the cane as much as I can, and I see the sadness in Molly’s expression as I meet with her. 

            We are beyond of the point of needing words to communicate. She asks me with her eyes if I would like company tonight. I give a slight nod of my head, and she gingerly takes my arm. I cling to her for what she is—my last hope.

_ “One day, you’re gonna be thankful to yourself for opening up like you have. Like we have.” _

            Molly and I are nearly to the edge of the cemetery when, as I should have guessed, she opens her mouth to speak. Most likely to offer some kind of comfort or give me a dull lecture about “pushing on, because that’s what he would want.”

            “Sherlock…” she says with a small sigh. We have stopped walking, standing mere inches from each other. “I’m sorry about John.”

            This may very well have been the 68th time she’s said this to me. “Please don’t,” I shake my head in response. “It was simply his time. There was nothing anyone could do.”

            She nods calmly. I expect she already knows that.

            “I understand how you feel. When Greg died, I—“

            “It’s different,” I cut with bitterness I do not intend. There is too much time I have left, too many painful seconds left to pass on my biological clock. I don’t remember taking her hands in mine, but I have. I stare at her, all of my hopeless intentions seeping through my tone of voice. I realize I am begging.

            “Please,” I choke, gripping her wrinkled hands tightly in mine. “Molly. Please. Let me go. It’s cruel for John and I to be apart, you know that. You’ve seen it.”

            I search her face for any sign of consideration of the mercy I plead for. I find none. She parts her lips and nervously adjusts her footing, looking back up at me with a pitiful gaze.

            “No, Sherlock. Not yet. I didn’t give in when Greg died, so you can’t either. It’ll be our little pact. Okay?” She holds out her pinky, and I’m surprised Molly has kept as much of her childlike personality as she has. “You’re going to have to trust me.”

            This isn’t humane. This isn’t right. But if Molly is being strong of all people, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t either.

            “To whoever goes first,” I say grimly, hooking my little finger around hers. She smiles, and it gives me a bit of relief to see that I have pleased her. Molly links our arms again and we resume our exit.

            “And who knows,” she shrugs lightly, “maybe we’ll change the world somehow. Us old bats.”

            Molly has succeeded in warranting a chuckle from my lips. A rare task these days.

_ “This is all I need. Right here. Us.” _

            Even in death, that wonderful and irritating bastard is giving me an ultimatum.

            All the emotions I never felt in the empty years of my life have violated my conscience with the gathered force of a natural disaster, the elements working together to achieve my undoing. They succeed in uprooting my everything with next to no retaliation. I once assumed love to be a dangerous disadvantage, but none of my eventual defiance to such a fact can exemplify how goddamn _hard_ I tried surrender sooner. And I find it curious that even in these moments of my love-centric despair, I wouldn’t trade those fifty years for anything.

            I have no choice. I cannot, in all my problem-solving genius imagine what decision I could make at this stage in my life that would change the world. But I will pursue it, not because I don’t want to leave things unfinished or rob the future of something imperative.

            I will do it because John would want me to.

_ “I love you, Sherlock.” _

            I grip the aged cane with a new resolve; a hopeless, dying attitude but one that is pushed on by nothing more than a memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never attended a British military funeral, so forgive me if I made any mistakes. I like to use the excuse that since Sherlock and John would have been crime-solving celebrities, maybe they'd do some things differently? I don't know. Either way, don't be offended if I got something wrong! In my defense, I'm not even British and none of the resources I used gave me the answers to the questions I had. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this! Comments are much appreciated.


	3. A Path Not Taken

            Over the three years since John’s passing I have learned the merciless lessons regarding the absence of a soulmate; you cannot feel joy, you cannot find peace, and you cannot let go.

            Widowed spouses tell deceitful stories of the eventual incline in post-love’s life. The nights are darker and more agonizing than any other night I have previously experienced. Time is heartless and unforgiving, now with an added element of procrastination towards my poorly-timed end. Days feel like years and seconds, fast and slow, harsh and cruel. Through each dismal rise set of the sun, not a moment passes that John escapes my mind.

            Thankfully, in some twist of good fate, I no longer suffer in complete solitude. Molly moved into 221B shortly after the funeral and I have never been more grateful for her presence. We’ve grown to share all that we have left; stories, tea, books, comfort. We even share a bed, though neither of us would dream of doing such a thing as a couple. During the nights where I am particularly vulnerable, she doesn’t hesitate to hold me close. I return the favor. We are each other’s crutch and aid; without her I would fall and cease to live for whatever pernicious design requires it.

            “Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side,” I once said. Here I am, old and lost.

            There is a small visitor in our flat today. Her name is Lily. A family finally moved into 221C, though they have proven themselves to be broken. There are countless nights when their shouting wakens Molly from her slumber, and naturally she cries about it. In consequence Molly has taken it upon herself to invite the little girl over whenever she pleases. I don’t mind; Molly had two sons, so the chance to spoil a girl especially at her age must be a dream come true. I don’t interact with Lily much, though she seems to enjoy me as far as I can deduce. I find it strange. A younger Sherlock would groan and complain until the poor child’s feelings were bitterly hurt, but I am no longer that man. One of the most pertinent things John has taught me is that time is completely of the essence. There is no room in this life for temper tantrums and ignorance, not anymore. Though it irritates me to say, I have...softened. Perhaps more of John stayed with me than I hoped for.

            Lily enters the room with the grace and beauty that only a child can possess. I imagine that her mother and father are fighting due to her downcast expression and the nervous fumbling of her hands. Molly gives me a knowing look and offers the girl a cup of warm tea, which she happily accepts. As Molly leaves to fetch the mail, I’m not surprised as Lily curls up beside me to read over my shoulder.

            “What’s that?” she asks curiously, eyes alight.

            I part my lips for a sigh. “Nothing. Old case files.”

            “Was that when you and your husband put bad guys away?”

            I pause. “...yes.”

            There is a sudden benevolence that possesses her demeanor. I glance over at Lily just as she places a gentle, tiny hand on my forearm. I stare. She blinks up at me. “It’s okay, Mr. Sherlock,” she says amiably. “He’s up there waiting for you. When the angels come to take you home, you can be together again. I promise.”

            The living ruthlessness in me immediately desires to scoff and push her away, enforce to her that there is no such thing and I’ll never see my John again, but the untaintable purity in her eyes begs me to reconsider. She is innocent and I have learned to be disciplined. I can’t find it in me to make her frown.

            “Perhaps,” I settle, turning back to my files with a small sigh. Seemingly content with that response, Lily beams once again and continues to examine the pictures of bodies and bullet wounds, her chin resting pleasantly on my arm. Somewhere deep inside my chest, a mysterious warmth rises and begins to blossom.

            Molly reenters the flat several minutes later with what I expect to be a look of fondness and approval, but her eyes are staring blankly at an envelope in her hands. It must be something of clear importance as the rest of the mail is ignored, placed casually under her arm. I silently ask for an explanation.

            “You have a letter, Sherlock…,” she mutters, taking a few sudden steps forward as if she’d forgotten how.  
  
            I hold out a hand for the envelope, linking with Molly’s emotion as I feel the weight in my hand and quickly read the name of its sender.

            Impossible.

            “L…leave,” I stutter, barely able to keep my inner seams together in what I am sure is an utterly terrified expression. Molly seems to understand. She offers her hand to Lily, taking her into the kitchen and gratefully out of my sight.

            I fumble for the letter opener, carelessly slicing open the fold as well as the inside of my finger. I only allow a small wince at the pain, tossing the dagger aside without acknowledging the scarlet liquid trickling down my hand.

            I _have_ to read. I _have_ to know.

            I soak up the words.

_Sherlock,_

_ We’ve never been on very good speaking terms. I suppose that’s why I didn’t bother talking to you much at John’s funeral. How long has it been now? It’s hard to believe that all these years have passed and we’ve never had a cup of tea. _

_I regret that now._  


_ I have terminal cancer. Seems like all those years drinking and smoking never did me any good. John told me this would happen and I should have listened to him, though I’m sure those aren’t the only factors. I’m not a spring chicken after all. Bloody hell, that’s such an old-woman thing to say. Funny how all we can remember in these last days are the phrases our grandparents used to say, am I right? _

_ It’s a shame, Sherlock. You were all things to John that I never was. You were his brother, his best friend, his life partner and someone to rely on. You were his family. I should have been his family too. I can’t say in words how deeply sorry I am and how lonely I find myself to be because of my mistakes. Maybe by telling you all of this, I might clear my conscience a bit before my time comes. _

_ Anyhow...I just wanted to express my eternal gratitude to you, Sherlock Holmes. You were the light in John, his everything, and I never got to properly thank you for making his life such a happy one. _

_Sincerely,_

_Harry Watson_

            A haunting reality electrifies the blood in my veins and the muscles under my skin. Life is an hourglass and each grain of sand is an opportunity wasted, a path not taken. Harry is the last of John’s relatives; no matter what their differences were, this is not a chance I can allow myself to pass up if I intend on withholding my sanity. It can’t wait.

            “Molly…” I mutter after several silent minutes. “I need to go somewhere. Be back later.”

            I don’t wait for a response from her or the child, gripping John’s cane in my hand and rising quickly from my throne. My bones crack and my carelessness couldn’t be any less important. I am filled and pushed with a pressing need, an unquenchable thirst as if John himself was waiting beside his kin. I suppose in a way, he is.

            I take Molly’s reticence as acknowledgment, and leave the flat without a second thought.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

            Taxis are much easier to hail when you’re over the age of 75, so I’ve learned. Young couples offer them to you as their good deed for the day, or kind drivers answer your call before the call of others. I suppose they expect me to be thankful, but such acts of kindness are only appreciated for the sake of convenience. I owe nothing to these people and they owe nothing to me. The world has forgotten my name and who I once was, the requests of knighthood and public recognition having died with my arse of a brother. 

            That, however, is its own long list of regrets.

            The thick glass doors slide open as I come near, and I find it strenuous to withhold one of many annoyed groans that have the urge to spring forth. I’ve lost the liking for hospitals and clinics. The supplies for my experiments are donated and brought to the flat, all for the sake of my unwillingness to leave. Perhaps this is why most of the world has forgotten my face; I never show it and I haven’t since John’s funeral, though fresh air and city lights have done me a bit of good, I suppose. London seems to miss me as much as I’ve missed her.

            Taking a few grim steps forward, I approach the young secretary behind the desk, feeling all too passive. She looks up at me with a kind smile. I don’t think she knows of her two-and-a-half month pregnancy.

            “Can I help you, sir?” she asks politely, leaning slightly forward as if I wouldn’t be able to hear her otherwise. After pushing out an irritated sigh, I give her Harry’s name and she tells me the room number without protest. It is arduous and annoying to maneuver through the mazes of equipment, doctors and desultory family members, but I manage without losing my temper.

            I’m there before I can turn back. The name Harriet Watson is written on the small sign outside of a closed door, like a death certificate waiting for my signature. Taking a deep breath, I lean on the cane and slowly turn the handle of the door. I don’t think she’ll mind my dismissal of knocking.

            This is John all over again, but worse. He isn’t here with me and I have nothing, no one to hold onto. Harry’s face is beaten with tears and borrowed time. The weight-loss is remarkable, and dangerously so. Her hair is short and gray, body wrinkled with the mistakes of earlier years and remorse screaming for pity from her spots of age. Her eyes open as she recognizes a second presence in the room, the beeps and noises of her machines being the only sound to break the terrifying silence. We stare at each other for several minutes. I look at her and see John looking back, and I know she sees the same in me. The tears in her eyes make a slow formation, and at the sight of them I avert my gaze to the chair beside her. Hobbling my way to the seat, I allow myself to sit and lean the cane on the edge of the worn hospital bed. More silence. Minutes have passed and neither of us have said a word; such things seem so unnecessary, and yet within them is a crucially lethal sense of closure that both of us are searching for. After several moments I meet her stare once again. Her confusion at my quick arrival is obvious.

            “You received my letter?” she asks, voice hoarse and dry.

            “This morning. I was surprised, to say the least.”

            “I figured you would be. It’s been years since we’ve spoken.”

            “Decades.”

            She nods dolefully. “A little company never hurt anyone though, right? We’re the only ones that have him in common…”

            I don’t reply to that comment. If she has summoned me here to talk about John, I am positive I won’t withstand it.

            “I guess I wanted to apologize,” she says after some time. “In person, you know. It’s different in a letter but I think this deserves something more personal.”       

            “You have nothing to apologize for,” I reply, swallowing the lump in my throat and looking to the floor. “John never held any anger towards you. He died knowing you were sorry. All is forgiven.”

            “I’m not _just_ talking about him,” she says weakly, and my eyes lift. “I’m talking about you too, Sherlock. He told me about how your family was…and I never helped John make a better example. I suppose you found out on your own, I just—“

            A foreign sense of compassion I haven’t felt in years seems to augment within me. I reach forward and take her hand in mine, and the shock lights up her face like a beacon. “Harry,” I begin, clearing my throat from the discomfort that grips it tight. “Don’t. When I said all is forgiven, I meant it. You don’t have much time left. I don’t want you to spend it worrying about something that is already water under the bridge.”

            I watch as a smile transforms her face, the sickness allowing itself to leave. It is diminutive and fragile, but the strange feeling of forgiveness has seemed to temporarily relieve her. “Thank you Sherlock,” she whimpers. “I don’t think you understand how much that means to me.”

            “No. I think I do.”

            I leave out the part where I confess how family means nothing to me without John.

            Stroking my thumb along the back of her palm, I offer a grin before looking down at our hands. “I suppose I’m jealous of you, in the end.”

            “Sherlock, don’t think about it like that. You have a wonderful opportunity.”

            “How?”

            “Don’t you see?” she says with a smile of disbelief. “You have the chance to make John memorable. I think he deserves it, you know. Your stories changed lives back in the day, and now they’re just legends…”

            “What?”

            Harry rolls her eyes briefly. “Don’t play dumb, you know what I mean. I just don’t think the two of you should ever be forgotten. But that’s my opinion, not sure if it counts…”

            My eyes flash open. The revelation hits me like a bullet to the chest and I am paralyzed as it strikes. Molly’s words fly through my mind like data through a network, vital and momentous in its nature.

_ “Maybe we’ll change the world somehow, us old bats.” _

            “Memorable? Exactly, that’s…that’s what Molly was talking about…”

            “Hmm?”

            “I have to go.” With a meaningful smile and a refreshing sense of purpose, I press my lips to the top of Harry’s hand and kiss her softly. “Don’t worry, Harry. I’ll make sure he’s remembered. I won’t let either of you down. Thank you for reaching out to me. If by some odd miracle there truly is an afterlife, tell John I’ll be there soon.”

            Her face seems to soften with understanding, laced in the smallest hint of excitement. “I know you’ll do him justice.”

            I kiss her hand once more before resting it gently at her side. No escape now. I grip the cane once again and walk as fast as my old body will allow, pushing hospital employees aside and angering those in my way. I have no regrets of doing so. Ideas and possibilities clash in a war of production that I force my conscience to comprehend and address. There is no time to waste if I am to finish this task before my turn finally arrives.

            John always wanted to turn his blog into a book; it’s about bloody time I published it for him. His adventures, as he called them, will be documented for the world to enjoy them as he did.

            I have found my direction. There is no turning back.


	4. Hallelujah

                Agony has an interesting method of gradual depletion. In most of my studies, I have calculated that a majority of emotions can be deterred by counteraction with their opposite; sadness to joy, anger to laughter, failure to triumph. But the terror of agony and all it inhabits is an infectious plague that I have suffered for too long; a plague whose cure resides within the affected person. After my visit with Harry before her death two years ago, I was a lost man waiting for the arms of death, surrounded in my own terrifying agony. But as I reentered the flat with the dawn of my realization behind me, I was filled with a new and strangely overpowering sense of purpose. It would be a lie to say that I was by any means “cured”; I find “uplifted” a more fitting word. I wrote. I copied and pasted. I wrote more to fill in blanks. And after two long months of nothing but dedication to what remained of John’s archives, I had come to a finished product.

                Finding a title proved to be the most difficult part of the journey. I sat for hours mulling over possible names for the novel; a grand total of over a thousand pages and footnotes, pictures and scanned documents to make a large casebook of sorts to catalogue our adventures.

                Adventures. Suddenly, it had hit me.

                Using my own name seemed rather narcissistic, but as it was mainly John’s writing I thought I’d give the novel a title he would use. I settled for something honest, something fitting that he would be proud of.

                 _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_ was an instant success.

                The collaboration of mine and John’s work now rested on one of every five homes in the UK, critically acclaimed and world famous, translated into over 70 languages and on the New York Times Bestseller list since its release. The book has sold 8 million copies, won a number of awards that I naturally couldn’t give a damn about, and its influence has ensured me an international acknowledgment as well as a proposal for knighthood. I decided perhaps I would give Mycroft a chance to roll over in his grave and accept the offer; King William insisted and I thought it was a bit late to pass up any more remarkable opportunities. It would give John more attention, and that was all that mattered. Several irritating interviews and harassments later, the gremlins of the media had left me at peace. Molly and I live in comfort and leisure, without a complaint or a care in the world apart from the obvious. Years have passed and we are undisturbed. Lily is growing up. My mold catalogues are growing feverously. All is well.

                Too well.

                I open my eyes to another day without him, another embraceless morning and a soulless day. Something is different. Something serene. Tranquil. There once felt like an eternity between me and my end, the annoying sensation of my strong body refusing to give in, but this particular morning offers me a lack of such hopelessness. Is this how everyone feels? How John felt? I give Molly a small smile as she enters the room and her hesitation is a sign to me. The finality of today isn’t in my perception alone. She knows. And she smiles back.

                “I, uhm…you know. Tea,” she stutters, gesturing to the tray in her hands. Her voice cracks. There is a connection between us that has remained durable and unbroken through these years of our cohabitation, so strong that she fights back the tears I know she yearns to shed. We begin to drink the tea in silence, though she perches herself closer to me than usual. I feel her head rest gently on my shoulder. She hasn’t cried yet, which I am thankful for. Without thinking twice I slip my arms around her fragile frame and we hold there until we become stiff with the passage of time. The cups of tea laid cold and forgotten on the nightstand, averted from either of our sights as we become lost in each other and the friendship we’ve fought for. Such contact was forbidden with anyone but John, and yet Molly has breached comfortingly into my small circle of trust. I am grateful, so grateful.

                She helps me get dressed in something simple and comfortable, as is my preference. I am perfectly capable of doing most these tasks alone, but her assistance is incredibly helpful and I find it easier to manage the buttons when she aids me. Molly hooks the tattered scarf around my neck and adjusts it in its signature way, and meets my eyes as the forbearance slacks her shoulders.

                “What…do you want to do today?” she asks grimly, slipping an arm into mine and regaining the ground of false confidence. She helps me out the door and down the hall like a guiding force, though the question remains hanging in the air. It wasn’t something I had yet entertained with thought.

                “The city,” I finally reply, glancing sidelong at her. “Then, I’d—I’d like to visit him. One more time.”

                She nods.

                We start the day with a small, short walk down Baker Street. It’s all I can manage. There are photographers there, as I should expect. It is rare that I leave 221B and the chance to get news on the famous Sherlock Holmes is never one that reporters and other vultures like to pass up. At first there are many clicks and flashes, mutters and whispers and attempted deduction at the nature of my activities for the day, but suddenly they stop. Seconds pass and everyone is silent. I expect the onlookers have quieted in attempts to reach for a bit of respect, a sort of “leave the old man alone” approach. I nod at them as I pass, and they return the gesture dismally as Molly continues to lead me on. Is the surety of my life ending tonight so obvious? I can’t remember the last time I looked at myself in a mirror. Perhaps I am much older and lethargic than I feel.

                I wish it were John on my arm.

                Molly takes me a few more blocks until she knows I can’t walk much further. She hails a cab and helps me inside, closing the door behind us and giving the cabbie directions without asking me first. She knows exactly where I want to go. I grin nervously and turn my gaze to look out the slightly-tinted window, watching the trees and buildings wisp by, thinking of how much my city has changed and how despondently we miss each other.

                One last trip. One last time.

                The cab stops just outside the haunting and decorative wrought-iron gates, and I exit before either Molly or the cabbie can stop me. I could not have asked for a more ironically angelic day. The sun’s halcyon rays peek through the emerald leaves of spring, casting curtains of fixed light that shower the cemetery in shades gold and amber. The birds sing a well-rehearsed tune, a soft breeze rolls around me and a sense of tranquility passes through like a guest making an unplanned visit. It is beautiful and harmonious as I will soon be.

                But not yet. This is the peace before the war, the calm before the storm. One more door to close, one more time.

                Molly laces her arm with mine once again, guiding me across fields of green and saying nothing. We are there before I have the chance to consider retreat. The stone stands high, unwavering and protective like the remains of the man it marks.

CAPTIAN JOHN H. WATSON

31 MARCH, 1975 – 4 SEPTEMBER, 2053

ARMY DOCTOR, CONSULTING DETECTIVE

LOVING HUSBAND

PROTECTOR OF LONDON

                I choke on my breath.

                I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I can barely stand and Molly knowingly lets go of my arm to walk back towards the entrance. She is giving me the gift of time alone, time much needed, time I will never be able to get enough of.

                Several minutes pass. If I am supposed to speak, there are no words. If I am supposed to cry, there are no tears. So many sentiments and affections fly through my head and they’re impossible to separate and catalogue, but all of them are John, all of them are wonderful and all of them hurt. He isn’t here. He can’t put his arms around me and tell me it’ll be okay, like he had done so many times before. I am a spirit at the grave of its soul and I shatter in the memory of the half I am missing.

                “John,” I whisper hoarsely, my voice much lower than I remember as his cane drops to the grass. My hands find the cold stone, body trembling, breath shaking, mind collapsing, heart splitting. I am on my knees, fingers tracing his name engraved on the ebony stone. I am broken. “John, my John, my dear John…”

                _I never told you. I never said how much you changed my life because I was too bloody proud to open my mouth. You were my everything, are my everything, and I am here with so many regrets that you’ll never hear. I let you down. I should have done everything I could to show you what you meant to me and I am hopelessly convinced that I didn’t do enough. I needed you, John. I still do. I can’t do this without you. I love you. I love you._

                I hear his name fall off my lips too many times to count, first in whispers, then growing into sobs. My chest is exploding, throat is burning, and I am wailing with a despair I didn’t know I could harbor. I rest my forehead on the stone, fingers wrapping around its edges in a mournful hold as if hugging the rock in John’s place will comfort me. I am divided and undone, scattered and lost. I feel my body quaking, rocking, breaking. He is my world, a world that is gone, a world I am still desperately grasping for and a place I am no longer allowed to reach. I feel arms around me and though I know who they belong to, I immediately melt into them as I would his. Molly cradles and shushes me, and I feel her tears on the back of my neck.

                How strange this must look, the emotionless Sir Sherlock Holmes being torn apart by his own crestfallen sorrow. I can feel the bystanders, cameras clicking from the fence, distant cries of sympathy from the chainlink. My initial reaction is to shout words of hate; they don’t have the right to feel as I feel, to weep as I weep. None of them knew my John the way I did. They aren’t entitled to have broken hearts. I bury my face further into Molly’s shoulder, and she rubs my back in small, comforting circles. The tears have stopped from my end, harsh but short-lived, and several minutes later I pull from her embrace and offer her a somber smile that she returns.

                “Come on old man,” she jests. “Let’s go home, yeah?”

                I only have the strength to nod.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

                Hmm. Home. Suddenly Baker Street is more beautiful than it ever used to be. The tapestries, the furniture, John’s chair sitting across from mine by the fireplace. I clear my throat, standing in awe until Molly gestures with her chin towards the bedroom.

                “Go lay down. I imagine you’re pretty tired.”

                “Yes. Thank you.”

                I cannot describe the overwhelming relief in knowing that once I lay down, I won’t ever have to get up.

                “Molly…” I say, turning in the doorway to look back at her. “Lily. I want to see her.”

                I watch her face soften. “Sure. I’ll go get her. You get in bed, alright?”

                “Of course.”

                The room is as warm as it was when we left. I lean against the dresser, slipping off my shoes and barely managing not to fall over. I debate whether or not to take off my coat and slip on one of John’s dusty old jumpers. Naturally, I do. I am not afraid of death but being as close to John’s memory as physically possible doesn’t seem like an ill idea. The fabric is soft and comforting as I slip it over my head, careful not to overdo my movements, and I replace the scarf where it belongs around my neck. Comfort. Not sentiment, not at all.

                The mattress is a second home. The way the springs and blankets and pillows and all-around promise of relaxation wrap around me are like a hug of their own. John passed away here nearly five years ago, and I survived like he knew I would. He knew, and I didn’t. Typical. I sit up a bit and fold my hands over my stomach, looking at the ceiling and letting better times flood my mind.

                The thoughts are interrupted by a gentle, “Hi Sherlock” from the doorway. My eyes flash down to see Lily’s small figure standing quietly, as radiant as a nine-year-old can be.

                I feel myself smile. “Hello.”

                “You look sick. Are you okay?”

                I don’t have the heart to tell her the truth. “I’m fine,” I lie without a smidge of regret. It seems odd that I have become so protective over the child, but I don’t want to be the one that breaks her heart. She admires me, that much is clear.

                “I think you’re lying to me.”

                A chuckle escapes my lips. I’ve taught her well.

                “Can I stay with you?”

                “No. I don’t want you to see this, Lily.”

                “But—“               

                “No buts.  You’re too young to sit beside a dying man. I wouldn’t harm your innocence so.”

                I see anger in her expression; an anger the pierces me. Her fingers waggle the way John’s used to, nose scrunching up, and I am a puddle of anguish before she even says a word.

                “…I suppose we can talk for a bit.”

                The light slowly returning to her eyes offers me solace.

                Two hours pass before she finally leaves. Talking to a child has never been so painfully easy, so natural, so welcomed. She warms me and cools me down all at once, touching my heart in places no one but John had ever reached. She asks questions that I promptly and honestly answer, about the stories I’d written, possible dramatizations, motives and clarifications. I smile and it is reflected in her teary eyes. She is beautiful, red hair in gentle curls and freckles perfectly placed. I find myself wishing her any good fortune I ever had.

                “Before you go, Lily, there’s one more thing I want you to have.”

                “Ohh! A present?”

                “Of sorts.”

                I reach over and open my nightstand drawer, pulling out one of the first copies of _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_. I know she already owns the book and I’ve prepared an explanation, but the way her face lights up at the sight nearly winds me.

                “Oh, Sherlock,” she says excitedly, running her fingers over the custom-illustrated cover, brown eyes alight with joy. “This is the first thing I’m going to read when I’m old enough. Thank you.”

                “Don’t get ahead of yourself Lily,” I reply with a grin. “This is a special copy. I’ve written you something inside that I don’t want you to read until your 18th birthday.”

                “But—“

                I hold up a hand to silence her. “Please. Don’t open it a day before, do you understand? Just take it before I change my mind, sentiment is tiring and I’ll probably regret this kindness later.”

                I don’t want to waste more of my time on it. I’ve done so much…

                “Thank you, Sherlock. You’re the best. I’ll come up tomorrow and see how you’re doing.”

                Her final goodbye is a tight hug and a kiss on my cheek, which I accept with gratitude, and then she is gone, all the grace and innocence that I admired absent with her.

                It is funny how the past five years have been spent begging for the end, for the time on my clock to run out and my heart to stop, but seeing Lily’s excitement and knowing I’ll no longer be a part of her life has me wishing that I could stay a few years more.

                Molly sets the kettle on the stove and lights it. I expect she’s making biscuits to go with the tea, and I take the time alone to my advantage. Thinking back on life is a sentimental task and I’m not sure how people manage it. I draw the conclusion that my life was a fair one and any further contemplation of the subject is useless internal banter. Best do without that.

                I look around the room in search of something to occupy my mind until my eyes come to rest on the old, framed photo resting atop the nightstand. A wedding photo. I reach out and take it dolefully, bringing it closer and letting my fingers glide over the protective glass. We are facing each other in the picture, my hands resting on his waist with a happily curious expression as he adjusts my tie. I remember. It wasn’t quite straight and John made a fuss about fixing it, a task that took him nearly five minutes while I stood there and let him. He is looking fondly up at me in the photo and I am returning the affection, both then and now.

                I clench the muscles in my throat and they burn.

                “Seems like yesterday, doesn’t it?” Molly muses, smiling to herself as she sits on the edge of the bed. “Feels like we’ve been married to our men for only a few weeks, but a lifetime too.”

                “How deep of you,” I comment in an attempt for snark, but my voice is suddenly shaking. Molly notices, swallowing hard and leaning a bit forward.

                My chest tightens. The pain is a welcomed warning of the time I have left. “Molly…” I huff. “Could you. Could you play the song?”

                She glances over at me, blinking back tears before offering her silent agreement. She walks over to the table by the window and sets the old, dusty and unused iPhone on its archaic base and presses for the song I desire.

                The strings begin, and I am taken back to better times.

_I see trees of green_

_We swayed together in the middle of the floor before the hearthfire, wrapped in the warmth of each other and the serenity of our affections. Nothing but the walls and memories of 221B surrounded us. He was small and fit perfectly in my wiry arms and I melted in the strength of his. Louis Armstrong carried us to the memory of our wedding dance, exactly ten years to the day._

_Red roses too_

_“A whole decade,” John mused quietly, nuzzling into my chest in a way that completed me. He adjusted my arm so that he could take my fingers in his, kissing each one softly before looking up at me with passionate eyes. “Thought I’d be sick of you by then.”_

_I see them bloom_

_I chuckled. “You’re the one that told me you could never fall for such trivial ideals, John.”_

_For me and you_

_“Still doesn’t mean you can’t have your days.” He pressed his lips just below my chin_

_And I think to myself_

_“Hmm. Goes both ways, dear.” The last word held a snarky ring that made him laugh._

_What a wonderful world_

_He lifted his head from my body and unlaced our fingers, cupping my face and standing on his toes to pull me into a kiss. I complied with a shameless obedience, parting my lips to invite him in further, encasing him in my arms before returning the “I love you” he whispered between breaths. We were one and we were whole._

                “Sherlock?”

                Molly has taken my hand in hers, wiping more blasted tears from my stinging eyes. Coming back to reality is a violent stab in the chest, a blade in a place where it doesn’t belong.

                “Sherlock.”

                “Sorry. I strongly dislike crying, I don’t know why it keeps happening.”

                “I understand. You don’t have to explain.” She continues to wipe the dampness away from my face and I slide myself down into a laying position. My heart is pounding irregularly, a raging anxiety pulsing through me that I can’t identify or arrest. I don’t know if it’s fear or joy.

_You’re ready. Don’t fight it._

                “Molly,” I gasp, gripping her hand as my chest cavity gets tighter and tighter. She shushes me and mutters words of comfort, my vision of the room seeming to fade. My breath comes in rasps and the color slowly desaturates from anything and everything. All is false, like I could touch the very air and feel something solid, a painting, a portrait of the final images I’ll ever see.

                I brace Molly’s hand, the strokes of death’s cold brush painting a slow and welcomed darkness on my face. Featherlight, like kisses.

_It’s okay, Sherlock. I’m here._

                There are tears in Molly’s eyes and I am too weak to offer words of comfort. She bends and presses her lips to my forehead, which presents a flicker of bittersweet light on the grey palettes in my joyless eyes. She knows I am thankful, and I know I am gone.

                The gentle strokes on my face refuse to stop. I no longer feel the warmth of the blankets or the touch of Molly’s hand. Whisked away by some sort of current, I am suddenly everywhere and nowhere, eyes closing to succumb myself to the end.

                Featherlight.

                I whirl around to the intrusive blaring of a car horn. Baker Street’s sign is three meters to my left and the busyness of a 2014 London bustles around me. All is familiar. My eyes search desperately for an answer, some sort of conclusion to explain this; am I dreaming? Did I fall asleep instead of pass on like I’d thought? I reach in my pocket for some kind of evidence before I take notice of the obvious; my hands. Long, slender fingers, not even the smallest wrinkle. I run them through my hair and feel the thick, sleek curls and the sensitivity that makes my body shiver as I do so. I’m dressed in the familiar simple suit with my favorite wool coat, and the blue scarf that seems to have reverse-aged at least fifty years.

                If this is Baker Street, then—

                “Sherlock.”

                “J…” The words are viciously stolen from me as I turn. He is young again, healthy, beaming at me from the step. In less than a second I am there, wrapped up in all that he is, sharing kisses that define us and pulling him as close as humanly possible. I am complete. I am whole. _We_ are whole. Time is a mirage; we stay together as long as we need to, kissing and holding and touching and praising, whispering sweet nothings to each other under our breaths and the heavenly sun.

                He had waited for me.

                “Come on,” he summons at last, lacing our fingers together and taking the doorknob of our home in his hand. “I want to spend my eternity with you.”

                I hum in response, pulling him in for another passionate kiss as he opens the door and leads us into our forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for being so loyal to this series and all it is meant to stand for. Your support means the world to me and has encouraged me to write more in the future. <3


	5. Epilogue

                The wind is as gentle and caressing as she remembers. Lily smiles fondly at the stones, side-by-side, protected by the looming shade of an old and elegant tree, intricate and antique in it’s nature. Sherlock and John’s graves had become a tourist destination of sorts, remnants of visitors past adorning the detectives’ resting palce. It brought Lily comfort in knowing that they were so well-remembered, so dear to the hearts of a nation, a world and all that inhabit it. She was not alone in keeping their memory alive.

                A museum had been built to immortalize the objects and pieces of their various famous cases, accompanied by a small statue in a local park across the street depicting a scene of the timeless lovers holding hands, Sherlock pointing to the sky, John looking up at his husband. The buzz of their passing had decreased over the fifteen years since, but Lily hadn’t forgotten a single moment. She pushes out a sigh and sets the bouquet of red roses gently before the stone and steps back, a look of content in her eyes. Joy fills her. She knows it’s him.

SIR SHERLOCK HOLMES

BORN 6 JANUARY, 1981

REUNITED WITH HIS BELOVED

17 MARCH, 2058

CONSULTING DETECTIVE

THE GREATEST MAN IN THE WORLD

                “Are you cold?” her husband asks, voice heavy with concern, and watches as she shakes her head. “No. I’m alright.” He nods in acknowledgment, slipping an arm around her shoulders and kissing the top of her head. They stand in silence for several minutes. He knows how long she typically stays here, how long she needs to mourn and remember, and he has no issue; it’s something she has always done, something she has to do, and he will always stand beside her as she does.

                “It’s funny,” Lily speaks at last, lifting her head from her husband’s chest and smiling to herself. “He was more of a father to me than my own was, and I only had the pleasure of knowing him for three years of my life. Whenever I would stay the night, I would crawl into their bed during a thunderstorm and play dress-up with Molly. My life with them was perfect, and I would be nothing without them...”

                Adam hears the sniffles from his wife and steps behind her, encasing her in a hug and resting his chin atop her head. He twists his finger slowly in one of her long, ginger curls, kissing her temple softly and speaking low. “I bet anything that he’s proud of you.”

                She wipes her eyes, resting her hands on top of her lover’s. “Do you think he told John about me?”

                “What? Of course. Sherlock loved you, Lily. I didn’t even know him and just the way he wrote about you tells me that much.”

                She chuckles. “Yeah. It’s strange. I’m twenty-three now, and a famous old man that I knew for a short time gave me everything I have. His money sent me to school where I met you, his flat gave me a place to live, us a place to live...I have a husband and child, all because he saw something in me that I didn't see in myself. I miss them, Adam. I miss them so much. Even John, and I never met him.”

                “I know, love. I know. At least you had Molly for a while.”

                “Mm. Yeah.” The young woman grinned at the memories, having been practically adopted by Molly until her death a few weeks after Lily’s seventeenth birthday. “I still wish they were both here. I bet Sherlock would’ve walked me down the aisle if I asked him.”

                “I’m certain he’d have done anything for you.”

                “And I’d do anything for him.”

                Adam slides his hands down, resting them gently over the bump of his wife’s belly and pressing his lips to the side of her head. “I have no doubt that you’ll be as great a parent to little Sherlock as his namesake was to you, and Molly too.”

                Lily’s smile is unbreakable, looking down at her husband’s hands before turning and giving him a small kiss. “Impossible. No one can be as good as them.”

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

_Dearest Lily,_

_In my long and completely un-boring lifetime, there are only three people I have let into what little heart I have; John, Molly, and you. You are young and full of spark, a spark I unfortuantely will not witness the burst into a flame and a fire that I am envious of. You are beautiful in all that you are, all that you do, all that you touch. You took a dying old man and turned him into a much-needed mess, to say the least. Today is your eighteenth birthday. If you don’t believe you can conquer the world with your grace and your purity, I have taught you nothing._

_I leave you all of my funds, my home, my everything; there is no one who needs or deserves it more. If you take a walk to the bank around the corner, you’ll find an assistant ready with a key to all my finances that he will hand to you. Achieve all that you hope to do, for me, if for no one else._

_I am forever proud of you._

_Much love,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, all of you have been so supportive of this series. I truly cannot thank you enough.


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